


Out of His Paws

by RectifiedPear



Category: Lady and the Tramp (1955)
Genre: Dogs, F/M, Financial Issues, Oneshot, Pets, Post-Canon, Realistic, Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RectifiedPear/pseuds/RectifiedPear
Summary: Seven dogs and a baby is a lot of mouths to feed.





	Out of His Paws

It was a mess having seven dogs and a baby in a house. Tramp padded the area, paws careful not to knock toys as he tried to clean. From muddy paws to baby food, the house was not faring well at all. The oldest of the canines knew this was turning sour. Lady and him stayed up late, discussing with each other matters of the heart.

“Jim Dear knows some people, Tramp.” She spoke, voice low, a hush among the crib they were guarding.

Saving their kid meant sometimes Tramp got guard duty. Sometimes his son slept, tucked under the child's tiny arm, a protection they saw. 

“People who can be trusted.”

“Trusted with which ones?”

“Danielle has been interested in farms.”

He cocked his head. “Has she, or have our people?”

“Tramp.”

“Annette and Collette might hate farm life.” He responded, legs moving if only to stop them from becoming stiff. 

“I didn't say either of their names.”

Both ears went up. “Separating them then?”

“Darling mentioned the dog food cost. Angel eats like two of our girls.”

“Hardly,” his tail thumped the floor and both froze, eyes upon the crib, when no response came, he continued. “She eats like Scamp and Danielle. Collette and Annette eat like five kibble bites will last the whole walk.” He tried to ignore his son's friend's name. “Splitting up the family then?”

“Four mouths– right, five mouths is hard, Tramp. They're weaned now, they eat kibble, what fed you and I can't feed seven dogs.”

“And y – our people had doubts on keeping me.”

Lady nods. Her dark eyes upon the carpet, paws nudging a toy around. A rattle, something kids and babies clung to. He picked it up into his mouth and reared onto his back legs. The sound of it hitting the mattress barely stirred the child. Satisfied, he sat back down.

“Danielle will love it. I've seen how she looks outside. She wants mud, she wants fun. She wants freedom, Pidge.”

“Then it'll be for the best.” 

That's six dogs left. Really it's no question what's going to happen. Scamp's staying, so is he, and Lady will too. “And our other two daughters?”

“Jim Dear knows someone, someone in the family of Darling. We'll be able to visit during holidays.”

He thinks on it. His kids are being given away, handed out. He wants to tell her this is wrong. That this shouldn't be how it is. He imagines the streets. One cold rain, half the litter laying lifeless. What is better then? To lose them to death, or to give his children over to man?

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said it'll be okay.”

“Yeah.”

He swallows, the lump in his throat bumping his collar. There's no choices left in his paws. He can lay down and play grieving dog, pretend to mourn his kids, but he's not that kind of dog. He'd nearly lost Scamp, and the honest thought of it doesn't scare him much anymore. He's not avoiding telling Lady had Scamp died, he'd have carried on, he just knows she already knew. She saw his anger before. A time now awhile ago, an argument they'd shared. Back before he'd grown more attached and tried to live believing they'd all live here, grow old, until the day they passed. Lady's type of thinking, he knows. She was always optimistic, and him, the realist. He feels like by believing, he's let this hurt him more. 

A farm would be wild enough but safe enough, he thinks, those very same words jumping from his mouth now. They surprise him. How calmly he's saying them surprises him.

Lady nods her head. 

“It would make Danielle happy.” He cannot help but imagine her, tail wagging, tongue lolling, so happy, so busy chasing chickens – he's never even seen a living chicken on a farm! – she'll be able to play in mud and meet other dogs. Maybe she'll form a pack! A pack of herding dogs maybe. Sheep or horses or goats. There's dogs that herd those, yeah? His daughter, Danielle, having a pack of her own.

His chest swells at that idea. 

And Annette and Collette might be out there, in the family's hands, trusted hands, and maybe they'll sneak out for adventures. Or they'll be the new Si and Am, he's not above thinking it. They could be like the poodles he's met, too afraid of mud to hang with The Tramp. That too makes him smile. They'll be safe, out of trouble.

“I'm sorry to tell you these things. Again.”

“Not to worry.”

He doesn't tell her half the time he's not listening, that he's stardc out the window or sniffing the perimeters of the room to avoid the thoughts. That it took him, The Tramp, awhile to accept that life's not fair, albeit in a manner he never knew. He doesn't say his son's new friend might be why the humans are upset or such a mess.

He's been wrestling with matters of having kids since he had kids. He's been wrestling with matters of losing kids since Scamp ran off. He's been wrestling with his identity since he met her. He could say all these things now. Tell her Scamp reminded him why he should breed and leave, not stay, like a knot in rope, too deep set to be shaken. His heart pangs at the thought of her doing that without him. He remembers how Scamp's eyes looked from the day they'd opened. Wild. Danielle's were not that much better. He'd made smaller Tramps, and they were still growing. 

He'd done this, and likely done it to many other females he'd been with. How had those puppies fared, he wondered. Was he avoiding the streets so much now because he knew one day he'd bump into a daughter, a son, someone, and see himself in their eyes?

He opens his mouth, tongue lolling, and wants to say these things. Living in a home has made him less active, more prone to thought, and he doesn't like the thoughts he has, where they go, or what they're about. A conscious does not belong upon a dog who did his best to survive and never wore a collar. It is but a heavier weight than the tags themselves. 

Instead, he leans forward, like they did under the night sky, and gives Lady a lick. 

“We're going to be alright.”

Her eyes are full of trust. He leans himself into this. 

“One way or another, we'll be alright, Pidge.”


End file.
